5 pet household

November 23, 2008

1. gordon. the aleph of our marital pet lexicon. he’s big, too big for some, small among rotweilers, who gave him half of his genes. he is a human in a dog suit. we ask him with utter sincerity ‘when are you going to take off that dog suit?’ and he looks at us with a humor borne of tragedy. because he knows it can never be. he can listen to all the stockhausen in the world, but he is stuck at the apex of dogdom-domesticated to be sensitive like a ten year old child, confused while lustily indulging in his dogness.

2. oliver. sheltie. the foil to gordon’s sardonic superego. the id turned ego who has become a vivid representation of our marriage. he backs into ariel when i raise my voice, and vice versa. he was like siddhartha, a perfect reflection of a questioning soul, and then he was bitten badly by a coyote. now he’s not so sure. he never liked skateboards.

3. wozniak. a very beautiful, very fat cat. not bright, but cunning and sure of himself. fat man with a little voice. a god among cats. we inherited this little guy from our college days of sex and depression. he was born, fucked his mother, and gave birth to a never-ending supply of fairly retarded cats in olympia, all of whom bear his happy-go-lucky attitude, and all of whom trace the fading slump of an intelligence bell curve. at around generation three, we started to see some genetic defects. one kitten even died for no reason after about 3 days of life. that’s not wozzie’s fault.

4. ct27. wozniak’s mom, lover, sister, probably daughter. came delivered in a set of two with her son. lives for cuddles and to appraise the current condition of her larden kin. they are almost the same cat, react to each other like the two ends of a bolo, gyrating around a common will. she’s the more socialable to humans, but can’t be bothered by the coterie of assorted mammals we employ here. very soft.

5. plutarch. cat. abyssinian. the newest, most chaotic member of the family. he is young, but has recently gained a set of ever growing testicles between his little yams that will be shortly snipped. he excels in sleeping, swiping at my bare ass when i’m trying to take a dump, and brutalizing oliver. i have seen that little bastard jump three feet sideways just to inflict some hurt. he’s sure that eventually he’ll wear oliver down, and take him to the ground like the sad wooly mammoth he is. he is forever confused by his poop. why does oliver pick it out and put it on the floor? why do i pick it out of the litter tray and throw it in the toilet? these questions will someday be answered.

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My dog Samantha. A Scottish Terrier. Was never afraid of man, beast, frog or Bird. She wanted to protect us. Many days we would walk outside to the familiar echoes of her voice directed at Opossum running along the fence. They loved to tease her.

We would always give her dog treats or bones to eat; or toys to play with. She always reacted the same way to any object we handed her. She looked at us, with with such a weight in her heart and a sorrow filled glare we could discern quite clearly.

“I’m gonna have to find a place to hide this one too?” I am sure she thought as she waited patiently for us all to look away. Only then, could she go about her work of finding that spot in the house where she could seek eternal peace for the burden in her mouth. That object with no home. That object we wished so much for her to play with and not discard.